[FICATHON] Your Grace, for mirabehn
Title: Your Grace
Author: house_kitten
Play: Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2 respectively
Recipient: mirabehn
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Hal/Poins (cos I love 'em!)
Warnings: bum sex, and a one-sentence reference to what Falstaff gets up to.
Rating: R for explicit (but not too explicit) sex
Notes: I wrote this in under two hours as a last minute and happily undertaken favour so it's a little rough and most certianly not my best work! So I don't know...judge accordingly?
Summary: Hal and Poins get up to a bit of fun in Mistress Quickly's tavern; total PWP
Falstaff and the rest of the Eastcheap gang were up to their usual carousing in Mistress Quickly's tavern. All except Prince Hal who was ensconced in a corner nursing a cup of sack while he watched the others play. The Mistress herself was nowhere to be seen, but she had sent Doll Tearsheet out to lighten Hal's mood. The blonde harlot draped herself contentedly on the Prince, yet even when she was so bold as to sit in his lap he paid her no heed. His steely blue eyes were focused solely on the dark haired man currently matching Falstaff in a drinking contest. Ah Poins, Hal thought to himself with a chuckle, knowing the man he often called a bedfellow would soon be pooled under the table. No man in England could imbibe as much beer as the great Sir John Falstaff.
Hal craned his neck to see around Doll, who was currently having a go at the laces of his tunic. He swatted her hands away absentmindedly, never giving her as much as a first glance. His eyes remained fixated with an almost indecent intensity on Poins, and he felt mischief rising from low in his body as his companion reached for a third tankard of ale. He downed his own cup of sack in one gulp, and shoved Doll Tearsheet off his lap.
After the fourth tankard, Falstaff still had that clear glint in his eye that never went away no matter how many he downed. Poins, on the other hand, made the mistake of trying to stand up and only succeeded in staggering half way across the room and within arm's reach of Hal.
Hal, who was feeling all the effects even his small amount of alcohol had to offer, snatched Poins by the arm and pulled him down. The two men came face-to-face, much to the uproarious amusement of their friends. Poins' expression was pure drunken amusement offset by Hal's expression of deadly seriousness.
Poins' eyes twitched downward along Hal's taut body for ever so brief a second and his smirk increased. "Your grace seems to have a growing problem," he said, resting a hand high on the Prince's thigh.
Hal grunted and his eyes flamed with annoyance. He did not like that mocking tone in which Poins said "Your grace." As well, he hardly had two drinks to Poins' four, but he couldn't delude himself into thinking he was the one in control at the moment. He planned on that changing, however.
"Upstairs" was the only word Hal could manage. His growing problem was causing him to regret his proclivity for tight breeches. So Hal shoved Poins away from him and made for the stairs. Poins was close on his heels, too close in fact. Neither man paid much heed to the shouts and hollers from their friends.
Falstaff's booming voice cut through the clamor, insisting that there was little harm in what English youths played at in their leisure time. Hal would never admit that the old man's acceptance of his dalliance offered him any comfort.
Hal pushed these thoughts out of his head as he stepped into the room Mistress Quickly kept for him. He all but pulled Poins in by his hair into the room and slammed the door shut.
"Your grace," Poins said, looking at Hal like he was every bit a brand new toy.
Hal didn't have patience for such a dance. Being considerate was, to him, fisting his hand into Poins' jet black locks and planting a mind-crushing kiss on his lips before throwing him face-down on the bed. Poins knew this routine well and let the Prince take him as he saw fit.
Hal made quick business of Poins' breeches and then his own, and palmed his cock in an almost vicious manner. Past experiences had taught him to always keep tallow at the bedside table, and he applied it with an expert hand to Poins' and himself. Even after much working it was not comfortable for either man at first, but soon they settled into a rhythm that had Poins arching his back like Hal had accidentally seen Doll Tearsheet doing once for Falstaff. Hal banished such thoughts from his head, fearful that they would gravely affect his performance. He pulled at Poins' hair, leaned across his back and bit at his neck like a rutting animal, and Poins groaned aloud. He clenched around the Prince, sending Hal into a fury of motion that found him soon thereafter spent inside Poins.
The two young men collapsed onto the old bed together. Hal rolled off Poins' back and laid spread-eagle, still breathing hard.
"Is your grace satisfied?" Poins said with the same mocking tone he had used downstairs. Hal merely grunted and gave him a swat that might have even been playful.
Author: house_kitten
Play: Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2 respectively
Recipient: mirabehn
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Hal/Poins (cos I love 'em!)
Warnings: bum sex, and a one-sentence reference to what Falstaff gets up to.
Rating: R for explicit (but not too explicit) sex
Notes: I wrote this in under two hours as a last minute and happily undertaken favour so it's a little rough and most certianly not my best work! So I don't know...judge accordingly?
Summary: Hal and Poins get up to a bit of fun in Mistress Quickly's tavern; total PWP
Falstaff and the rest of the Eastcheap gang were up to their usual carousing in Mistress Quickly's tavern. All except Prince Hal who was ensconced in a corner nursing a cup of sack while he watched the others play. The Mistress herself was nowhere to be seen, but she had sent Doll Tearsheet out to lighten Hal's mood. The blonde harlot draped herself contentedly on the Prince, yet even when she was so bold as to sit in his lap he paid her no heed. His steely blue eyes were focused solely on the dark haired man currently matching Falstaff in a drinking contest. Ah Poins, Hal thought to himself with a chuckle, knowing the man he often called a bedfellow would soon be pooled under the table. No man in England could imbibe as much beer as the great Sir John Falstaff.
Hal craned his neck to see around Doll, who was currently having a go at the laces of his tunic. He swatted her hands away absentmindedly, never giving her as much as a first glance. His eyes remained fixated with an almost indecent intensity on Poins, and he felt mischief rising from low in his body as his companion reached for a third tankard of ale. He downed his own cup of sack in one gulp, and shoved Doll Tearsheet off his lap.
After the fourth tankard, Falstaff still had that clear glint in his eye that never went away no matter how many he downed. Poins, on the other hand, made the mistake of trying to stand up and only succeeded in staggering half way across the room and within arm's reach of Hal.
Hal, who was feeling all the effects even his small amount of alcohol had to offer, snatched Poins by the arm and pulled him down. The two men came face-to-face, much to the uproarious amusement of their friends. Poins' expression was pure drunken amusement offset by Hal's expression of deadly seriousness.
Poins' eyes twitched downward along Hal's taut body for ever so brief a second and his smirk increased. "Your grace seems to have a growing problem," he said, resting a hand high on the Prince's thigh.
Hal grunted and his eyes flamed with annoyance. He did not like that mocking tone in which Poins said "Your grace." As well, he hardly had two drinks to Poins' four, but he couldn't delude himself into thinking he was the one in control at the moment. He planned on that changing, however.
"Upstairs" was the only word Hal could manage. His growing problem was causing him to regret his proclivity for tight breeches. So Hal shoved Poins away from him and made for the stairs. Poins was close on his heels, too close in fact. Neither man paid much heed to the shouts and hollers from their friends.
Falstaff's booming voice cut through the clamor, insisting that there was little harm in what English youths played at in their leisure time. Hal would never admit that the old man's acceptance of his dalliance offered him any comfort.
Hal pushed these thoughts out of his head as he stepped into the room Mistress Quickly kept for him. He all but pulled Poins in by his hair into the room and slammed the door shut.
"Your grace," Poins said, looking at Hal like he was every bit a brand new toy.
Hal didn't have patience for such a dance. Being considerate was, to him, fisting his hand into Poins' jet black locks and planting a mind-crushing kiss on his lips before throwing him face-down on the bed. Poins knew this routine well and let the Prince take him as he saw fit.
Hal made quick business of Poins' breeches and then his own, and palmed his cock in an almost vicious manner. Past experiences had taught him to always keep tallow at the bedside table, and he applied it with an expert hand to Poins' and himself. Even after much working it was not comfortable for either man at first, but soon they settled into a rhythm that had Poins arching his back like Hal had accidentally seen Doll Tearsheet doing once for Falstaff. Hal banished such thoughts from his head, fearful that they would gravely affect his performance. He pulled at Poins' hair, leaned across his back and bit at his neck like a rutting animal, and Poins groaned aloud. He clenched around the Prince, sending Hal into a fury of motion that found him soon thereafter spent inside Poins.
The two young men collapsed onto the old bed together. Hal rolled off Poins' back and laid spread-eagle, still breathing hard.
"Is your grace satisfied?" Poins said with the same mocking tone he had used downstairs. Hal merely grunted and gave him a swat that might have even been playful.